4. The Third-Down Lie #2
For a moment, I considered changing it. I could have told her Reid cornered me in the parking lot.
I could have said the apparel CEO was in town and I would be home late.
That version would have been honest, but honesty came with another fight about Sloane, another argument about Reid, another demand that I choose between the career machine and the woman waiting at home.
I pressed send.
There was no reason to make tonight harder than it already was. Reid had trapped me into the dinner. I wasn’t going because I wanted to spend time with Sloane. I was going because one hour with the CEO could finish months of negotiation and get my father out of my schedule for a while.
That was all.
The message showed as delivered. I put the phone back in my pocket and reached for the door.
Reid looked over. “Handled?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I got held up.”
He nodded as if that settled everything. “Good.”
I pulled the door shut and grabbed the seat belt. The strap dragged across my shoulder, and I shifted it away from the sore spot before clicking it into place.
“We’ll be in and out,” Reid said as he put the car in gear.
“One hour. That’s what you promised.”
“One hour.”
I watched the practice facility disappear behind us as Reid turned toward the exit. I pictured Piper at home, annoyed but safe from another pointless argument about campaign optics. When I got back from Seattle, I would apologize, take her somewhere nice, and this would barely matter.
I settled into the seat as Reid’s car pulled onto the street.
McGinnis’s sat exactly where it always had, wedged between a tire shop and a laundromat, its faded sign buzzing above the front windows.
The second Reid’s car turned into the lot, I stared through the windshield.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Reid glanced over as he killed the engine. “What?”
“Why here?”
“Because it works.”
That answer told me more than I wanted to know.
I got out anyway.
The smell reached me before we crossed the sidewalk—old fryer oil, stale beer, something charred on the grill.
McGinnis’s had never pretended to be anything it wasn’t.
That had been the whole point. Back in college, Piper and I could disappear in a booth here with ten dollars between us and nobody cared who I was supposed to become.
Tonight, cameras waited outside the windows.
I stopped beside the entrance. “Those photographers are with us?”
Reid kept walking. “They know where to stand.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
He pulled the door open. “Sit down, Nolan. We’re already keeping the CEO waiting.”
A flash burst through the glass as I stepped inside.
The room looked almost the same. The bar ran along the left wall. The old tables still carried years of scratches, initials, spilled drinks, and bad repairs. Even the back corner Piper and I used to fight over was still there.
Except now Sloane Prescott sat at that table.
Two apparel executives occupied the other chairs, jackets draped over the backs, phones faceup on the table. Sloane lifted a hand when she spotted me, looking far too polished for a room where half the stools leaned to one side.
I turned to Reid before we reached them. “You picked our table?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “Your table?”
“Mine and Piper’s.”
He realized what I meant, then shrugged. “Even better.”
That stopped me for a moment.
“Right this way,” he said. “I tipped the owner to clear out some space. It’s the kind of place people believe. Good roots. No velvet rope, no private club. The CEO gets to see that you haven’t forgotten where you came from.”
I looked toward the windows. Another flash went off.
“You brought photographers to prove I’m grounded.”
“I brought attention to a campaign that needs attention.”
“This place wasn’t part of the campaign.”
“It is now.”
The table under Sloane’s hand had been the one where Piper and I split a pitcher on draft night because neither of us wanted to spend money on food.
We had sat shoulder to shoulder, laughing over warm beer while my phone kept buzzing with people trying to drag me somewhere richer, brighter, more useful.
Now Reid was using the same table to sell shoes.
Sloane stood when we approached. “There he is.”
“Sorry to keep everyone waiting,” I said.
One of the executives rose halfway from his chair and offered his hand. “We’re glad you made it. Reid tells us this place goes back to your college days.”
“Yeah.” I shook his hand. “It does.”
Sloane looked around with a grin. “It’s so charming in here, Nolan. Your dad knows how to pick the right aesthetic. This makes the campaign feel grounded instead of staged.”
A camera flashed again through the window behind her.
I almost laughed at the word ‘staged’.
Instead, I pulled out the open chair. “This is fine, Dad. Thanks for setting it up. Let’s get our orders in and get through the meeting.”
Reid gave me a satisfied nod.
Sloane sat and angled her chair toward mine as the executives started talking about the launch schedule. I looked down at the worn tabletop, at a carved line near the edge that had probably been there since Piper and I were broke enough to count quarters before ordering another drink.
One hour. That was the deal.
I sat beside Sloane and let Reid turn one more piece of my life into advertising.
The waitress appeared beside the table carrying four pint glasses, foam slipping over one rim onto her tray. She set them down one by one while the executives shifted phones and menus out of her way.
“Here are your drafts. Let me know if you folks want to order any food.”
“Can we get something started?” I asked. “Whatever comes out fastest.”
Reid looked across the table. “We’re not rushing the meeting.”
“I’m not trying to make it last longer than it needs to.”
One of the executives laughed and picked up his beer. “I respect the honesty.”
I pushed the sweating glass away from the edge of the table. The beer wasn’t what I wanted. What I wanted was to finish the conversation, get back into Reid’s car, and go home before Piper had enough time to turn my absence into another argument about Sloane.
The executive beside Reid pulled up something on his phone. “The teaser numbers are stronger than forecast. The clips with both of you are outperforming the solo cuts.”
Sloane leaned toward the screen. “They like us together.”
“They like the campaign,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Same difference online.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
Reid gave me a warning look from across the table, but the executive only laughed again. “People buy stories. The product gets them in the door, but chemistry keeps them watching.”
Chemistry. That word had followed me around for weeks.
Nobody cared whether any of it was real. They cared that Sloane looked good in team colors and I knew how to smile beside her without looking like I wanted to leave. Reid called it positioning. The campaign people called it crossover appeal. Piper called it disrespectful.
I reached for my beer again, then stopped when Sloane shifted closer.
Her chair scraped against the floor. She leaned in close, making sure the photographers outside had a perfect view of her face. She covered my hand with hers before I could move it.
A burst of flashes lit the glass.
I looked at our hands.
“Sloane.”
“You’re tense tonight.” Her fingers stayed over my knuckles. “Relax and let them get a few good shots of us celebrating the launch.”
Another flash came through the window.
All I had to do was pull my hand away.
Instead, I looked toward the photographers and understood exactly what she was doing.
From outside, they had the table, the drinks, the familiar hometown bar, and Sloane leaning toward me with her hand over mine.
Tomorrow, some sports account would package it into a caption about campaign chemistry and Reid would send me the engagement numbers before breakfast.
“You planned that angle,” I said.
“Of course I did.”
“You could have warned me.”
“If I warned you, you’d look like you were posing.”
“I am posing.”
Her smile widened. “Not anymore.”
The executive across from us glanced toward the windows. “They’re going to love that shot.”
I should have pulled away then.
I knew exactly what I was doing. Piper had made her position clear the night before. She hated the way Sloane used physical contact to sell the campaign, and I had dismissed the whole thing as harmless because it meant nothing to me.
It still meant nothing to me.
I told myself that, anyway.
I left my hand on the table.
“I’m exhausted from getting knocked around all week,” I told Sloane. “Let’s finish the drinks, get through whatever they need, and let me go home and sleep.”
“Then give them the shot and they’ll leave us alone.”
“That better be true.”
Sloane turned back toward the executives, keeping the conversation moving as if her hand belonged there. Reid launched into distribution numbers, and I answered when somebody asked me a direct question, offering enough enthusiasm to keep everyone satisfied.
Outside, the cameras kept firing.
One hour, I reminded myself. Endure the dinner, let Reid collect whatever photographs he needed, then go home and put the campaign away for the night.
I left my hand where it was and gave the cameras the picture they wanted.
One of the executives lifted his pint before Reid could drag the conversation into another round of launch dates.
“We should drink to this before he turns dinner into a board meeting.”
“For once, I agree,” Reid said.
Sloane lifted her glass and tipped it toward me. “You’re the face of it. Do the honors.”
I pulled my hand free from hers and wrapped my fingers around the pint. The beer had left a ring of condensation on the table, and another burst of flashes went off beyond the windows as everyone raised their drinks.
“To a successful playoff run and a global campaign,” I said. “Let’s hope sitting here getting photographed translates into shoe sales.”
Sloane tapped her glass against mine. “It will. The sports networks are going to eat this up.”